“You won’t be.” The captain frowned. “But if that’s what you need, I’ll see it done.” He drained his cup, set it down, and stood. “I’ll see it done,” he repeated. “When do you want to go?”

Meralda brushed back a lock of hair. Her body still ached. Her head hurt, a dull pain that throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She was bone tired, though barely awakened. Tired from a day of spellwork, followed by a night of scant and fitful sleep. If my Sight returns at all today, she thought, I’ll be fortunate indeed.

“Late this evening, at the earliest,” she said. “Though perhaps tomorrow morning would be best.”

“I’ll get you in, Mage,” said the captain. “Somehow. Is there anything else you need?”

“Hourly reports from the Tower,” said Meralda. “Were you told I requested them last night?”

“No,” said the captain. “But you’ll get what you asked for, or I’ll have their heads on a string.”

Meralda smiled. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, you never know,” said the captain. “It feels like that kind of day.”

And then he turned, and was at the door, and gone.

Shingvere closed the door behind him.

“Tell you what,” he said. “We’ll watch the mirror, and send a lad if anything happens. Why don’t you go home, have that bath of yours, and then come back here and find the Tears?”

Meralda stood. “I’ll do that,” she said. “How,” she added, “I don’t know. Yet. But I will.”

Age of wizards is done, is it?

She marched for the door. “Tell the Bellringers and Mug to wait for me here,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

“We will,” said Fromarch. He refilled his coffee cup, and as Meralda passed him he spoke. “Tradesmen,” he snorted. “I should have turned all his teeth backwards and filled his ears with hair.”

Meralda laughed, squeezed the old man’s shoulder, and made for the street and the sun.

Tomorrow morning, nine of the clock, said the captain’s note. And the Alon mages insist on being there. I told them your spell would require them to stand at the door. So put a bit of flash it in, if you will. Can’t have these hedge wizards getting in your way, now can we?

Meralda folded the note. Tervis stood by her desk and looked expectantly down at her. “Was it good news, ma’am?” he asked.

“Of a sort,” said Meralda. She shoved the note in a stack of papers held down by a molten blob of blue-green glass and sighed. “We’ll be visiting the safe room again, tomorrow morning,” she said. “Looking for the Tears.”

“Oh,” said Tervis, and his half-smile vanished. “In the Alon wing.”

“Yes,” said Meralda. “Has there been trouble?”

“A bit,” said Tervis. “Some of the lads got into a scuffle on the second floor. Something about a copperhead shoving a floorsweep. The guard broke it up.”

“They weren’t playing football in the park today, either,” added Kervis, from his post at the door. “People are beginning to wonder.”

Meralda nodded. “I imagine they are.”

Tervis joined Kervis at the door. “We’d best get back to our posts,” he said. “Yell if you need us,” added Tervis.

Meralda nodded, and the lab doors shut, and aside from the soft clicking and whirring from the shelves, the laboratory was silent.

Silent, as it had been all afternoon. The mages watched the mirror, exchanging whispers at times, but never once breaking into spates of name calling or joke telling or, as Meralda had feared, advice giving. They’d watched the glass and kept Meralda in tea and fresh paper and that was that.

Even Mug had barely spoken, though Meralda noted his blue eyes were always upon her. Silent Mug, silent mages. Heavens, mused Meralda, perhaps the world is changing, after all.

Meralda stretched, rubbed her eyes, and counted rings on Opp’s timepiece. Seven of the clock? Already?

The Brass Bell began to peal out, and Meralda went back to work.

She’d been at home, soaking in a hot bath, her headache gone, but her mind awhirl from the events in the park and the daunting task that lay ahead. How will I find the Tears, she had wondered, as she sank into the hot bathtub. How will I?

And then she’d remembered the park. Remembered the latch breaking and falling, recalled discovering the outlines of a spell that had been flying above Tirlin, unseen for perhaps a millennia. She had leaped from the tub so fast she’d sent water sloshing across her water closet, soaking her towels and her bathrobe in the process.

“That’s how,” she’d said, her voice a near shout. “That’s how!”

And then, of course, Mrs. Whitlonk had banged on the wall, and Meralda had laughed and clapped her hands and slipped smiling back into the bath.

That, and a day’s work at the lab since, and she was nearly done.

A few more pen strokes, another set of twisting Foumai folded space calculations, and then Meralda put down her pen, and took a breath.

“There,” she said. “There!”

Mug swung more eyes toward her.

“Mistress?”

“It’s done,” she said. “If the Tears are there-”

“They are,” chimed Shingvere.

“-this will find them,” she said. “It must.”

Mug swung a pair of eyes down upon her papers. “Hmmm,” he said. Meralda heard Shingvere’s chair creak, and Fromarch mutter something, then Shingvere sighed and settled back into his chair.

“Oh, come and have a look, both of you,” she said. “If you see a flaw, I want to know it now, not after the Alons start snickering.”

The wizards rose and hurried to Meralda’s desk. “Well, if you insist,” said Shingvere.

“Hah! I see it!” said Mug. “You’re not looking for the Tears,” he said. “You’re looking for…what? A weak spell interaction?”

“Exactly,” said Fromarch. “This bit here,” he said, pointing. “This bit here. It’s a repeating latch, isn’t it?”

Meralda smiled. “You’re correct,” she said. “I’ll go over every inch of the safe room. Latch the spell, spin the latch, watch the illuminators. Any spell interaction will cause polarized hue shifts.”

Fromarch, who had been leaning close to the drawings, rose. “How small an interaction can this detect, Meralda?” he asked.

“Ten to the minus eight,” she said. “Ten to the minus ten, if I have time to halve the spinner diameter.”

“You’re a genius, Meralda Ovis,” he said. “I never said that before, but I should have, and I’m sorry.”

Meralda turned to face Fromarch, but he turned quickly away. Shingvere shook his head when she reached for Fromarch’s sleeve.

“It’s a brilliant design,” said the Eryan, quickly. “It won’t matter how well concealed the Tears are, if you’re looking for the concealment spell itself.”

“Unless the Alons took the Tears away with the broken jewel box,” said Meralda.

Fromarch snorted, and turned once again to face Meralda. “I know them both,” he said. “They aren’t that clever. And anyone clever enough to hide the Tears wouldn’t just hide them in the jewel box, knowing that pair of buffoons will spend all their time aiming who-knows-what spells at it,” he said.

“I hope you’re right,” said Meralda.

“I am,” said Fromarch. He nodded toward the drawings. “You’ll have the Tears in hand by lunchtime,” he said. “A hero of the realm.”

“Not unless she gets this built and cast,” said Shingvere. He frowned. “What are you going to call it, anyway, lass?” he asked. “Meralda’s Marvelous Locator? The All-Seeing Lamp of Mage Ovis the Great?”

“Mage Meralda’s Optical Alon Embarassor?” said Mug.

“It’s a weak charge interaction detection device,” said Meralda. “Or it will be, by midnight.”

Mug sighed. “Weak Charge Interaction Detection Device,” he said. “Rolls lyrically off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

“Quiet, you two,” said Fromarch. “The thaumaturge has work to do.” He glared at Shingvere, who shrugged and ambled back to his chair.

“You’re right, of course,” Shingvere said. “It’s going to be another long night.” He sat, and fumbled in his pockets. “Penny-stick?”